


Fear the Living; Kill the Dead

by HecticVexor



Series: Those Who Remain [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Apocalypse, BAMF John, BAMF Lestrade, BAMF Mycroft, BAMF Sherlock, Emotional Constipation, F/F, F/M, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HecticVexor/pseuds/HecticVexor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everything is different, Sherlock Holmes is a scientist studying post-mortem blood flow through the body. Jim Moriarty is studying the subject of fungi and latching to a host's body to control it. John Watson is a military doctor returned from Afghanistan who is forced to swallow his pride to have a stable home life. When science clashes and hell breaks loose, the world is spiraled into chaos and those strong enough to survive are pitted against the living dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear the Living; Kill the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the brainchild of a SuperWhoLock group RP I'm a part of. We started a Zombie AU and I had such a Sherlock muse that day the starter was so long I had to cut it down to roughly half the size. I kept the unedited version, however, and that's what you're seeing here as Sherlock's first end of the story. I have to thank them for a bunch of stuff, but mainly for being here with me for over a year now. So a huge thanks to all of you, and thank you to those about to read as well! I originally posted this as a drabble on Tumblr, but then I decided I wanted to make it a full story.
> 
> Last but not least, a huge thanks to my darling Mandi, my trusty proofreader and the love of my life. You will forever be the Sherlock to my John, the Chloe to my Max, the Ten to my Rose, and every OTP we have. <3
> 
> So let the zombies commence!!

A scientist. He was working on every type of experiment that the company would allow. He was in his comfort zone for once. Sherlock had waited his whole education for a chance to get to a science lab and be a proper chemist, working alongside like minds.  
  
Well, at least, partially like minds. Nobody could quite match the amount of findings Sherlock could record in one day, and they couldn’t even try to compete. But then, one day, something truly horrifying happened. Jim Moriarty, a scientist studying Ophiocordyceps Unilateralis and its effect on ants, had altered his findings with that of Sherlock’s on the possibility of restarting the blood flow of a human corpse. The result was catastrophic.

The corpse suddenly lifted itself from the steel table, darting after Sherlock. He jerked out of the way, but just barely, and was able to exit the room unharmed. Within an hour, the corpse had been contained in a small room where it couldn’t escape or hurt anybody.  
  
Overcome by joy at his success, Moriarty soon spread the experiment into the rest of the corpses in the morgue, hoping to simply rat out the science lab and all its lesser minds, but it became much worse than that.  
  
Within three days, half of London was overtaken by the sudden new virus. The dead were coming back, and they were making sure others became just like that.  
  
Three days later, it spread to Europe.  
  
Within three weeks of the initial experiment, the virus had the entire world on its knees.  
  
A few of the scientists, including Sherlock, had escaped. Three things had become extremely essential in the new fight against the dead. Food, shelter, and guns. And due to the scavenging of the four remaining inside the building, they finally believed themselves safe.  
  
As they had driven themselves out of the hospital by way of a flatbed truck, they had seen the body of Jim Moriarty, laying limp on the side of the road, a sadistic smile on his bloodied face as the living dead began to feast on what was left of him.  
  
One night, in the hotel they had barricaded, they all sat in a room, one agreeing to keep watch as the others slept. Mike was the first to take watch. Sherlock huddled himself in the corner, wrapping his lab coat around himself, and closed his eyes. It wasn’t a good sleep, but it was the first one he had gotten since hell had broken loose.

* * *

Nowhere to turn to. Ever since the war, he was with neither friend nor foe. Nobody that he passed by on the street gave him more than a second glance, let alone a second chance. Familiar faces were hard to come by in London, the ever flowing city of bustling traffic and people. John Watson found himself all too late wrapped up in the familiarity of life with his sibling.

Three months after returning home from his tour in Afghanistan, John had nowhere to go. Money was stretched thin just to get by, and he had no time for the luxuries of almost any other basic home in London. So, swallowing his pride, he called an old, familiar number.

Once he packed up his things and moved out to Sussex with Harry, things finally started looking up. He’d coaxed her out of her drinking problem, she’d gotten him a job at the same place she worked, the two were doing just fine on their own. But neither of them expected the tragedy that was about to ensue.

It started with a news report. John was making the morning tea and Harry was still lazily climbing out of bed.  _“Hundreds of people infected and showing symptoms of a case reported out of St. Bart’s hospital just days before. Could this be serious?”_  The news reporter had asked, as well as all of London. Nobody had the answers they wanted. With a small note written on the fridge, John told Harry he was heading back out to get some things. Mostly groceries. A bit of alcohol. A few guns if need be. And with that, he was off.

The world around them was turning to hell, and the supplies were of little use. Within a few days, they had to barricade themselves inside the houses and check every window and door on an hourly basis. They soon turned to taking shifts so the house wasn’t vulnerable at night. Harry slept at night, John slept in the morning. Like clockwork, they would wake each other up when the shift was over, lay down, and fall asleep with the security their sibling would secure the home for the next few hours.

Two weeks after the routine began, it came to a screeching halt. John was woken up by Harry, who was bloodied and shaken. She was shaking him violently at this point. No words were exchanged, just a simple motion. A bite on her arm. She had resealed the back door, but at the cost of her own safety. By now, they knew what happened, and they understood what needed to be done. But John couldn’t bring himself to do it. She was there since he was born, he couldn’t justify a killing shot in any time. So, in the silence of their home, Harry rested with her head on John’s lap, letting the moments pass them by.

They talked about when they were younger, when life was simple. Before they were thrust into the adult world and given responsibility and hardship. Before heartbreak. Suffering. Loss. Then, Harry began to fade in and out of consciousness. John brushed the hair from her face, humming a childhood lullaby as the rising and falling of her chest slowed and slowed, and every breath was feared as her last. He had seen this on the battlefield, but never something so personal.

Finally, when the sunset began to creep through the cracks along the boarded up windows, Harry’s chest fell for the final time. John momentarily took her hand, allowing himself a moment to grieve. But, when he noticed the first moments of her stirring again, he jumped back, drawing his gun, and looked away as he pulled the trigger. It wasn’t her anymore, it was some… **thing**  that wanted to kill him. His sister had died right there with him. And a part of him died in that moment, as well.

Packing what he could and leaving behind what he couldn’t, John left the house. He wouldn’t be able to stay there, not with the memories that haunted him. This was a new start, and John knew Harry wouldn’t want him to dwell on loss. He had taught her to move on from loss. She would want him to do the same.


End file.
